Blurred Lines
You've been dancing around this thing with your dad's best friend for far too long — glances that last more than a heartbeat, flirty remarks that toe the line of propriety. It was only ever a matter of time before it snapped.
▸ PAIRING: Dad's Best Friend!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, literally just a pwp, age gap (mentioned several times, she calls him old man), bucky calls reader sweetheart and kid, semi-public (?) fucking, slight degradation, choking, hand over mouth, bucky is mean during sex (and we like it) (this is becoming a common tag isnt it), bit of brat!reader ▸ WORD COUNT: 9.5K ▸ A/N: dont ask me what this is. it was supposed to be a quick pwp born from a single picture (see above) but i cant shut up so here we are. not my best im sorry :( dedicated to @blowingbarnes and @its-in-the-woods for always crashing out with me whenever seb stan is spotted out in the wild!
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Of all the things you could be doing with your Friday evening, being surrounded by people more than twice your age is the last place you expect to be. Your dad’s monthly dinner parties in this humble little mansion of yours are the talk of the neighborhood. He thinks of it as community building; you call it a bullshit way of schmoozing with other people as filthy rich as he is. He only laughs when you tell him this.
Wine and champagne are poured freely and generously, lacing the air with a certain buzz that makes it more alive than the fossils that fill this room. Hors d’oeuvres float around the room, bite-sized pieces of air that do nothing to quench your grumbling stomach. The room is filled with incessant chatter, all these overlapping voices that sound like a persistent fly buzzing around near your ear.
It’s even worse when you try to pay attention because then you hear “markets are down ten percent this quarter” or “the economy is going to the dogs with these new tariffs”. God forbid they start saying things like “I was just in Pebble Beach last week” followed by “just got myself a sweet new seven iron.”
If golf has no haters, then you’re dead.
Your dad is busy playing host, which means he has left you to your own devices after forcing you to tend to his guests. Told you to network because it would be good for your career. You’re a couple of years out of college, you don’t want to think about your long-term career. You have a cushy safety net after all. So you’ve planted yourself against a wall far from where all the action is, keeping yourself busy by nursing a cocktail that lands sugary on your tongue.
Lifting the glass back to your lips, you peruse the room for any interesting artefacts. All these antiquities — the people you mean — are hardly enough to hold your fascination.
All except one.
Your only consolation prize is the sight of your dad’s best friend — Bucky Barnes.
The way that man looks should be illegal. Full head of brunette hair swept back, grey dusting a few strands to give him that polished look. A single curl falling across his forehead above those strong brows that are far too expressive for the comfort of this dress.
They pucker when he frowns, a perpetually grumpy look that you’re used to seeing whenever he’s talking business with your father. They jump when he’s delighted, bright blue eyes shining like sapphires in this dim room draped in velvet and gold. Your eyes trace the slope of his nose down to the neatly trimmed beard that offers him that delicious touch of ruggedness to smooth out the stick up his ass.
Well, Bucky really is only uptight around this crowd. You can tell from the subtle twitch in the corner of his eye that he’s just about had it with Mrs. Morris, who is likely talking about her seven cats who feed on caviar and fresh fish every day.
He seriously will owe you one for this.
Pushing yourself off the wall, you casually make your way across the room towards him.
Your footsteps nearly falter when he notices you in his periphery, cocking a curious brow. That dark grey jacket is large but somehow seems to fit him oh so snugly, only minutely hiding those broad shoulders that you’ve only seen bare in the summertime. Bless the small mercies of your father constantly inviting Bucky to discuss work by the pool. The dark shirt he has underneath, the top buttons left open to reveal his wide chest, serves to emphasize the sharp blue of his eyes.
Eyes that are now darting towards you as you come to a halt right next to him.
Your hand lands on his bicep. An innocent gesture to the average bystander, but you feel him tense underneath your fingertips.
You’ve been doing this dance for far too long. You push, Bucky pulls away.
But he lingers. He’s always there.
“Dad’s looking for you,” you smile sweetly at him then at Mrs. Morris who brightens at the sight of a new listener. “Sorry, Mrs. Morris. I have to steal Bucky away for a bit.”
Her mood dampens only briefly before she is off to find her next victim.
Bucky releases a combination of a grunt and a sigh. “Never thought that would end,” he mutters under his breath before his gaze lifts up to meet yours. “Where’s your dad?”
“Dunno, probably somewhere cleaning out his liquor collection with one of his golfing buddies.”
“Thought you said—” He stops himself, the realization dawning on his expression fast. His lips twitch up. “Good girl,” he murmurs, seemingly absentmindedly.
Your legs press together under your dress, your fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around the stem of your glass.
But Bucky has never done anything without intention. He knows exactly what he’s doing saying that to you.
Your jaw clenches as you raise an eyebrow at him this time. “Yeah? You needed that, didn’t you?”
“A lot of things I need, sweetheart,” Bucky huffs a laugh, bringing his wine to his lips to take a deep gulp. His pink lips are stained with a light shade of plum. You almost want to kiss that color off his mouth.
“May I interest you in some air?”
A flicker of hesitation crosses his eyes. There’s that adult in him again. The need to be responsible for someone else’s child — all because you’re half his age. You get it; you like that he’s mature and considerate, a far cry from all the boys you’ve met. Even after all these years of knowing Bucky, he’s still the one top of mind when it comes to your ideal man.
But you’re you and you can’t resist pushing him just a little bit more.
“Oh, come on, Buck. I won’t bite,” you smirk.
Without waiting for a response, you begin drifting towards the balcony, your dress floating behind your heels. You move towards the further end of the room, a substantial distance from everyone else — not that it matters, the room is well on its way to becoming sufficiently and stupidly drunk off your father’s plentiful supply of alcohol.
You know Bucky will follow. He always does.
Whether he’s a glutton for punishment or whether he’s simply worried about you, you can’t tell. You just savor the fact that he always gives in to you.
On your way, you sneak past the bartender and swipe an opener from the counter and scoop up a fresh, unopened bottle of cabernet, tucking it under your elbow to hide it from any nosy guests. You don’t miss the amused smile Bucky sends your way as he trails close behind.
The evening air this time of year is crisp. There’s a gentle breeze that kisses your bare shoulders, combs through your hair, and cools down the warmth from the cocktail. Before you know it, a heavy weight drapes on your shoulders and you find the luxurious grey fabric covering you. Swallowing you. It’s almost arousing how much you drown in his clothes.
Even worse because now all you can see, smell, and feel is him. His clothes on you, like a possessive claim to the night. His cologne that sticks to the threads of this suit, one that tickles your nose with something delicious and sends your mind straight to the image of burying your face in the crook of his neck and breathing him in. The feel of his warmth that completely engulfs you, removing every single rational thought from your head as you look back at him.
“What a gentleman,” you tease, ignoring the shaky traces in your voice.
“May I?” He nods to the bottle.
“Please,” you murmur as you hand the bottle over to him, your delicate fingers wrapped around its neck. Bucky slides his hand over yours as he takes it from you.
Intentional once again.
You resist the sharp intake of your breath, quashing that spark of electricity as your fingers brush. A minor thing that sets off your insides. Bucky doesn’t look affected in the least, the very picture of calm and composed. He has always had a decent poker face and there’s nothing you want more than to see that carefully crafted expression fall apart — because of you.
The cork opens with a pop and you watch with great interest as Bucky lifts it closer to his face, giving it a whiff. It’s an act that shouldn’t look so deliberately sexy but something about this specific man doing this specific thing has your insides twisting with desire.
“My favorite,” he hums.
“I know,” you say, a little eager to please perhaps.
Of course, you know exactly what Bucky’s favorite wine is. He’s come over one too many times and that’s the bottle that your father always has stocked up. Bucky looks mildly surprised for a fraction of a second, but it quickly melts away into a polite smile.
He pours an appropriate amount into his glass and props up the bottle on the flat railing. He breathes it in again before taking a sip. “Delicious.”
You can’t help but take him in. Now that he’s even closer, it’s ridiculous that he can look even more handsome.
The sharp line of his jaw buried underneath all that scruff, you’re just itching to scrape your fingers across his chin.
The curve of his lips as he smiles gently at you. Polite. You want to wipe it off and have them parted, open to take you and your tongue in as he devours you.
The detached iciness of his eyes that you’re aching to thaw into puddles that you can dive straight into, eyes that can rake over you in a way that should be far from proper for a man your father’s age. Eyes that will darken as his pupils blow wide to take in every inch of you.
Your tongue digs against the inside of your cheek as you feel your heart strain against your ribcage once more.
“Let me have a taste,” you instead opt to say, a distraction from your current state of mind.
Bucky chuckles low as he eyes the wine then you. That stupid curl is falling across his forehead again and your fingers are literally twitching to brush it away from his face, to sink your fingers into his thick head of hair and draw him down to—
“What?” You snap a little too irritably.
“You hate wine,” he points out correctly.
Your traitorous heart beats loudly, thrilled that Bucky’s aware of such a small fact. “You don’t know that.”
“You crinkle your nose—” he laughs and points at you, “—just like that whenever you have a sip.”
“Oh, come on. I just want to try it. Since it’s your favorite and all.”
“Are you even old enough to drink?” He jests as he spins his wine glass slowly, letting the liquid aerate before bringing it back to his lips. You can see the tiny wet ring on the rim where his lips were, a lingering mark.
Your lips thin. “You know I am.”
“We can go back inside and I can get you one of those fruity cocktails you like instead, or an espresso martini. Though, it might be too late for you to be drinking coffee. Past your bedtime, isn’t it? Wines are for the grownups.”
He’s mocking you. You know it’s in good fun and you should be laughing or at the very least upset that he’s treating you like a child. However, your body seems to have neither of those responses; instead, you feel heat crawl up between your legs. This teasing, like you’re so much younger than him. Like he’s babying you. Patronizing. Degrading.
You really shouldn’t enjoy it as much as you do.
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip unconsciously, a useless effort to draw your attention away from the irritating heat between your legs. The act itself pulls Bucky’s gaze to your mouth. His smile slides off his face as he focuses on how your lips change color where your teeth are buried. He opens his mouth again, probably to apologize because he’s such a gentleman.
But you don’t need a gentleman. You certainly don’t want one.
Your hand shoots out and grabs the wine glass before he can say anything. His eyes widen as you do so, trained on you as you pinch it between your fingers. Then you position the glass in your hand in such a way that the wine stain his lips left on the edge is directly within your line of sight.
With your eyes on his, you lift it to your mouth and wrap your lips around that exact spot. Your lips over his.
You can see the exact moment his confidence quivers, like a flickering light inside of him. Darkness clouds his gaze as he watches you take that drink, watches you keep your eyes on him. He doesn’t move, you don’t think he even breathes. His eyes are glued to your lips and how they leave the same mark, smaller, in the exact same spot.
The wine is bitter and tangy on your tongue. You still hate the flavor but you don’t let it show.
“Rancid,” you confirm and pass the glass back to him.
He hesitates for a second before he takes it from you, fingers brushing again — only this time, his touch stays a heartbeat too long to be accidental.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”
Your pussy pulses with need at those words. You swallow your whimper but your breath hitches too quickly for you to stop it. “I kind of like playing with fire,” you whisper, elbow leaning against the railing as you look up at him with coy eyes.
As you shift your weight to one side, your tits press together, visible from the low dip of the front of your dress. Bucky’s attention falls briefly to that space before flicking back up. Your lips tip up higher into a smirk.
“You’re going to get burned.”
“It’ll be worth it.”
Bucky’s throat bobs as he gulps. There is trepidation in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. You’ve flirted. You’ve teased. You’ve pushed. It’s always been innocent. Always in the light. But this tête-à-tête feels different — with the intoxicating mix of alcohol, the beautiful silent night, and the privacy that both afford you, the pull is too strong to resist.
You take a bold step closer towards him. He stiffens, back going ramrod straight — some semblance of effort to make it seem like he’s shifting away from you. As you move, the slit of your dress flutters open to reveal an incremental inch of your bare legs. Once again, you catch his eyes dipping to the exposed skin. The climb up is slower this time, like there’s a weight dragging his gaze down. A sign of his resolve crumbling.
Your own eyes slide down to his chest, that delicious sliver of skin. A silver chain hangs around his neck, a thin glimmering line brushing his tanned skin. You pause in front of him but your focus remains on his skin. The heat of his gaze on you sparks goosebumps across your skin.
But you don’t look up. Instead, you hone in on this damned chain. There’s an irresistible urge to catch it between your teeth, to tangle your fingers in it, crumple it in your hands — all so you can yank him towards you like a leash. You fight against that impulse.
Bucky needs a more… gentle approach. You’ve been playing this game for so long, you’ve gotten him used to certain things. All he needs now is quiet nudges in the right direction. In your direction.
You raise your hand and your finger traces the path of the metal. The chain is so thin that you can feel his body heat rolling off him in waves as you do so. You apply a teeny bit of pressure, enough that your finger flattens against the cool necklace — enough that your finger also presses down against his bare chest.
Bucky’s chest rises against your touch with his inhale.
As you look up, your eyes can’t help but follow the shape of him. His thick biceps are no longer hidden behind his oversized suit jacket. His shirt seems to stretch for dear life over his broad shoulders, barely concealing the efforts of his hours at the gym.
All the while, your finger is still on his body.
“What’re you doing?” Bucky murmurs in the silence. His voice is low enough to hide the slight tremor in his syllables, but not low enough to hide the implicit warning in his words.
“I like this,” you respond softly, blinking up at him.
The words are vague enough.
But Bucky’s always been smart. He knows exactly what you’re referring to.
His hand reaches up, thick fingers circling your wrist. For a second, you think he’s finally drawing the line again. You think he’s going to pull your hand away and tell you to go back inside and behave like the good girl your father thinks you are.
Except he doesn’t move. Nor does he remove your finger.
Bucky stays, his touch warm on your hand.
“Bucky—”
Before you can finish your thought — if there was even one at all, the doors to the balcony slam open and out stumbles a couple who are already attached at the lips. The two of you freeze. It looks to be Mr. Grant down the street and Mrs. Prince on the other side of the street. You don’t think Mr. Price would be too pleased if he ever learned of this tryst.
Wincing, you’re about to ask Bucky for a quiet getaway, but he’s two steps ahead of you, having gathered the wine bottle, the glass, and your hand to lead you back inside before the two can realize they’ve been caught red-handed.
The crowd hasn’t changed, only more people are brushing past on unsteady feet and with breaths that are seasoned with liquor. Your father is still somewhere in the distance, closer to the bar, waving his hands animatedly with a few of his friends. None the wiser to the fact that Bucky is pulling you across the room.
When you reach a quiet spot, Bucky turns to you and sighs.
You can already hear it.
“Kid, we can’t do this.”
“Think about your dad.”
“This is all just fun and games, right?”
It’s the same argument over and over again. Shouldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t. Age-old tale. Frankly, you’re getting sick of it.
And you always have to nod and agree and skulk back into your room with your tail between your legs, like a scolded child who couldn’t have her post-dinner treat. Your heart barely begins to sink when the realization slams into you like a truck.
Call it liquid courage, call it foolish optimism, but your blood is rushing south rather than to your brain. You could keep running from this, and so can he, but neither of you will be able to get the other out of their system unless you face it head-on.
“You should probably go back to your room. I don’t think your dad will notice,” Bucky offers graciously. Always polite. Always responsible.
“I don’t want to leave yet,” you whisper, quiet enough that only he can hear you.
You know he knows your unsaid words. I don’t want to leave you yet.
Bucky’s eyes darken for a second, a moment of weakness when he lets his desires shine through, but he quickly curbs that when he whips his face away from you. “I should go talk to your dad. I need his thoughts on… something.”
He can’t even think of an excuse right now. It’s fair because you can barely think about anything when he’s this close to you.
“A lot of things we should and shouldn’t do,” you grumble under your breath. “How about you help me with something else?”
You’ve never been the patient one so you don’t wait for an answer before you shed his jacket, handing it back to him. Bucky takes it wordlessly, appearing entranced when you slip your fingers through his and pull him away from the action. His long legs have no problem keeping up with you, yet he somehow manages to trip when he gets a glimpse of the way your dress drapes low across your back, a single rhinestoned chain holding it together. He probably didn’t get a good look — or have the time to appreciate it earlier — when he was too busy being a gentleman and putting his jacket on you.
“Where—“ he clears his throat, it’s the first time you’ve ever heard him stutter, “where are we going?”
“Just… replenishing the wine we stole.”
The wine that has now been abandoned somewhere. It’s no longer in his hands, they’re busy with yours.
You lead him down a quieter hallway, no one in sight, not even the staff. Your housekeepers are fast asleep this time of night, leaving the hired waiters to do the rest for your father’s event. You pull him towards your father’s wine cellar, a spacious enough room with a passcode.
You remember sneaking in here many times when you were a teenager, attempting to rob your father of his favorite vintages, but Bucky was the one who caught you. Who scolded you. Told you to behave.
It was a stupid teenage crush then. It was out of the question. Bucky would never be interested in you in that way.
But as you blossomed into an adult — all throughout your college years, through the tears of job hunting and graduating and losing friends, Bucky was there through it all. You’d run out of fingers if you counted the number of times he’s seen you at your worst, including stumbling home drunk after a night out with the girls, him making sure you don’t twist your ankle on your way to your room, or helping you work through your resume when your father’s too busy with his own work. Calm and confident in you as always.
When you first told him about the job offer you had gotten, the one you’d been vying for from the beginning, he had smiled so wide, you’re sure his cheeks were aching.
“Always knew you could do it. Proud of you, kid.”
And you don’t know when that stupid teenage crush exploded into the four-letter word you’re still too scared to say out loud, but the feeling beats a steady, loud rhythm between your ribs. For a moment, you think that maybe he would call you silly, tell you that you don’t even know what that word means, if you ever told him.
But it’s Bucky and Bucky has never — would never — diminish your feelings in such a way. As teasingly patronizing as he could be, he has always taken every syllable of your words seriously. He treated you like an adult. After all, you weren’t his daughter. You were his best friend’s.
You could still hear his breathing right behind you as you punch in the code with jittery fingers. The cellar door opens with a whirr and a click, the only noise mixed in with Bucky behind you. You’ve been holding your breath since you took his hand.
Pulling him in, you finally let his hand slip away from yours — and for a hopeful second, you think he tries reaching out again before he balls his hand into a tight fist.
You don’t have to look very far to find that particular box of wines. You bend down, tucking your hair behind your ear as you do so, to pick up a bottle, hand gripping it by the neck of the bottle.
But it’s too soon to end the moment. Too soon to let him go back to those vultures out there when you want to keep him all to yourself. So you pause and turn to him. “Anything else you want in here while my father’s not looking? I’m sure he won’t miss a bottle or two.”
The look on Bucky’s face is one now engraved in the back of your mind. The frustrated downturn of his lips, the hazy look swirling in his eyes, the stubborn clench of his jaw.
“What are you doing, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, a tightness to his throat that’s evident in the strain in his voice.
Your heart slams against your sternum again. Sweetheart. God, you love it when he calls you that. It lights up your entire nervous system, stealing the air from your lungs when he looks at you with those eyes of his. That specific look that absolutely drowns you.
Time feels suspended in here. A stalemate. Neither of you move in the fear of breaking the brittle balance between the two of you. In here, it’s only you and him. The party feels nonexistent. The room feels small, like the walls are closing in on you. Urging you to move closer to him.
However, your feet are rooted to the floor. You’re afraid that if you take even one step, your weakened knees would topple you to the ground.
“‘M not doing anything,” you mumble as your grip tightens around the bottle.
“You know what you’re doing,” Bucky swallows, “we can’t do this. You know we can’t.”
“Why not?” You challenge right back.
“Your dad’s my best friend. I couldn’t do that to his daughter.”
It’s your turn for your lips to curl into a sour frown. Bucky’s gaze withers slightly, as if he’s disappointed in himself for making you upset.
“I’m my own person, Buck. I can make my own decisions.”
“You’re just a kid—”
“No,” you interrupt him, a slice through the thick air, “you don’t get to say that to me. You of all people. You’re the only one who’s treated me like an adult. Even when my dad babies the shit out of me, you’re the only one with faith that I’m a grown woman now. So why can’t you trust my decision now?”
And something in him breaks. You see the ice chip away from his eyes as his shoulders slump. A surrender. A white flag.
“It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s me.” His voice is feeble. “I don’t— I shouldn’t be doing this.”
His vulnerability gives you strength. Bucky has always been untouchable, invincible in your eyes. Now, looking at how much he’s holding himself back, like it physically hurts him to be this far away from you, you take the courageous step forward. You move towards him, one foot in front of the other, heels clacking on the tiles until you’re right in front of him.
Your hand reaches up, scratching through his beard before settling on the thick column of his neck. Your fingers twist in the hairs behind his neck, a scrape of his lower scalp that has him groaning. The sound ricochets straight through your core.
“Then trust me,” you firmly say. “I want this, Buck. Just as much as you. Let me have this.”
“I — fuck — I shouldn’t, we shouldn’t—”
He tries to pull away from you but you tighten your grip on his hair and that extracts another delicious sound from the depths of his gut.
“A lot of things we shouldn’t be doing, so what’s one more thing? What are you scared of, Buck? Think you’re going to break me?”
Heat flashes in his eyes as you push him further. He bares his teeth in a hiss. “And what if I do?”
“Good, I want to be broken. I want you to fuck me so hard that I can’t walk tomorrow. I want you to fuck me so hard I still feel you in my guts for a week.”
“Jesus,” he gasps, “the fucking mouth on you.”
“Rather put my mouth on you,” you grin as your free hand travels down and cups him between his legs.
His eyes slide shut, squeezing so tight you can see the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes deepen. “Fuck, I’m not going to last like this, kid.”
“Never asked you to. Only question is — would you rather cum down my throat or inside of me?”
The growl that leaves his lips is guttural as he lets his jacket pool on the floor. The bottle disappears from your hand and you don’t have a second to question where it went before Bucky dives forward and devours you. His mouth slants over yours, wet and hot as his hands reach up to cradle your face. The touch of both his hands is both hot and cold — flesh and metal — on your skin.
Your brain can’t process that contrast, not when Bucky is warm all over you.
You’ve been waiting for this for far too long. You’re drunk on the mere thought of Bucky kissing you and — now that it’s happening, your mind feels far away. Like you’re not even
You’ve been waiting for this for far too long. You’ve been drunk on the mere thought of Bucky kissing you before. Now that it’s happening, it doesn’t feel real. A déjà vu based on a dream you’ve had night after night.
But his presence invades every one of your senses. It grounds you back to this reality that convinces you that he’s really here. That he’s really kissing you.
He tastes like the wine first — dark and rich. A lingering flavor. It’s the kind of luxury that stains your tongue and ignites a trail of fire down your throat. It’s still there on his lips, acidity morphing into a treacly flavor. Less of the sharp tang from the glass, more of an aromatic pleasantness that stimulates every nerve inside of you.
Underneath all that, there’s the chocolate, the one you saw him sneaking past his lips in between sips of wine. Faintly sticky, a little more than indulgent. You can still savor the sugar on the bites that had melted on his tongue while he talked with the other guests. It’s softly sweet. Sweet in a way he’d probably deny.
It’s his cologne that overtakes you next. Something warm, not sharp. Not that aggressive, metallic men’s department smell, but closer to the scent of skin after sun like the summers by your pool. A trace of cedar, like the earth that has been warmed all afternoon and is just beginning to cool with the evening wind. Mixed in with a touch of smoke that reminds you that he’s not all that safe. That being with him carries this risk of getting burned.
And you’ll be damned if you don’t love it.
Bucky moans against your lips, tongue tracing the seam of them until you part and grant him access. He licks into your mouth, his tongue pressing against yours like he’s trying to savor every bit of you. “Fuck, you’re unbelievable,” he mutters, “can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”
“Dream come true for you, huh?” You tease but your giggle fades when Bucky drags his mouth along your jaw, leaving a wet trail of heated kisses on your skin, like he’s searing his mark onto every inch of you.
His head dips further as he gathers you into his arms, hands sliding across your bare back, drawing out a delicious shiver that snakes up your spine. He mouths at your neck hungrily, nipping and nibbling until you’re a gasping mess underneath him. When you feel like you’re about to fall, Bucky holds you even tighter against him. Your cleavage against his exposed chest.
Your fingers fumble with the buttons to reveal more of his skin. You’re greedy — greedier now that you’ve had a taste and all you want is more, more, more.
Your palms flatten on his stomach, not too chiseled, softened by age and wine.
“Winter has me lazier, sorry,” he says almost sheepishly, hiding his face in the crook of your neck.
You use your fingers to tip his chin up so you can look at him. Those earnest blue eyes whose intensity always leaves you with the urge to slide your fingers between your legs. “Do you have any idea how goddamn hot you are? How many times I’ve imagined climbing onto you, dragging myself across this stomach of yours?”
Another pained moan leaves his lips. “You spoil me.”
Your fingers splay across his jaw. “Always wondered, you know, what it feels like to put my hands on this,” you giggle as you scratch through his beard again.
He brightens. “Yeah? You like it?”
“Love it, old man.”
Bucky chuckles and the sound has excitement tingling to your toes. “I’ll show you an old man.”
He kisses you again, deeper, hungrier this time. He drinks in your rasp when his strong arms scoop you up, your legs wrapping around him as your arms wind around his neck. He props you up by your ass but the silk of your dress does nothing to dull his touch. It’s as if you have nothing between you.
No more barriers. Only you and him.
“You’re going to be my undoing,” he murmurs before he tilts your body back. Bucky holds you up with one arm, which is an act that already has your mind reeling to a different universe, and uses his other hand to part the opening of your dress, revealing your nipples peaking from the cold and the pleasure. “Beautiful.”
Heat floods your cheeks and your pussy, your core squeezing around air begging to be filled. He ducks his head once more to take in one pebbled nipple into his mouth, the heat of a thousand suns devouring you completely. Every inch of you is on fire. He licks and bites, appreciating every inch of your breast until you’re squirming and whining in his hands.
“Buck— please. God, feels so good.”
Your fingers bury in his hair, a futile attempt to draw him away to give you some air. A moment of reprieve from his ministrations. However, Bucky doesn’t allow that. He laps at your skin like he’s imprinting the taste of you onto his tongue, swirling around your nipple like he’s memorizing the exact curve of your tits. When you yank a little harder, he still doesn’t budge but his responding moan seems to say everything.
“Fucking feel like heaven. I always saw you in those skimpy little swimsuits. Do you have any idea what you do to me? I fucking jacked off like a prepubescent teen too many times in your guest shower thinking about what it would be like to fuck you in those pool chairs. Bend you over the barbecue counter outside and sink my cock into this tight little pussy.”
A needy whine rises from your throat as you plead for him again. “Bucky, please. Need you.”
“You already have me. You always had me.”
“Inside,” you gasp when he bites down particularly hard on your nipple.
“I want to taste this pussy of yours first, sweetheart. I’ve been thinking about it all night. I wanted to just hike up this skirt and put my face between your legs.”
Your eyes roll so far back you’re sure it’s permanently damaged. “Jesus, Buck, I can’t— not tonight. Please. Another time.”
“Can’t do that. Need to make sure you’re taken care of first.”
With an irritated glower, you finally pull his head all the way back from your chest. “Listen to me, Barnes. I’m about to fucking cum because of you kissing me alone. I want to cum around your fucking cock. It’s either that or I’m going to get on my knees and have you cum in my mouth, all the while I’m fingering myself stupid. You take your pick.”
Bucky looks bewildered, both from the lingering effects of tasting you and the whiplash from the brashness of your words. You’ve always been a brat with him, but never like this. Never this particular. Never this deliciously demanding.
His lips curve into a salacious smirk. “Alright. How do you want me?” As you try to think, Bucky’s hand slips between the two of you, to where your dress has been bunched up around your waist. His fingers trace over the molten heat between your legs, where the liquid has seeped through your nearly nonexistent panties.
His fingers are practically tracing your pussy lips over your thong.
“You might as well wear floss if you’re going to be wearing this,” he grouses, more so to himself. You bite back a laugh and the urge to call him a boomer.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Kinky fucker.”
Bucky’s eyes flash with something dangerous as he eyes you. “Careful, kid. You don’t want to know what I’m into. Might scare you to the hills.”
Fire blooms in the pits of your stomach again. That’s not a threat to you. That’s a promise.
That’s when you decide.
“I want you to fuck me from behind with your hand around my throat.”
Bucky closes his eyes again, nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. A thin string of patience keeping his sanity intact. His voice is dipped in honey when he says his next words. “You’ll be the end of me.”
He lets you back onto your feet, quickly flipping you around and facing you towards the door. It’s arousing how easily he manhandles you, like a ragdoll he’s flinging around as he pleases.
“Hands on the door. Don’t move.”
The command has shivers rippling along your skin. You always knew deep in your gut that Bucky would be this way. Despite how soft and kind he is with you, you knew he would know exactly what you’d like when it comes to sex. And this — this is exactly what you like.
You flatten your palms against the door, a shudder of anticipation slithering through your system. You can’t see him but you can hear him, feel him, smell him. You hear the clink of his belt, the undoing of his zipper. You can feel his palm glide along your spine, sliding under your dress and circling around to grope your breast. You can smell the arousal leaking from his tip, his cologne sinking back into your senses as he leans down against you.
Then you hear another sound — a rip. You finally whip around to see him rolling on a condom.
“Really? How long have you been carrying that around?”
“Since I started getting hard around you,” he gruffly responds. An earnest answer.
“And when was that?”
He purses his lips, seemingly debating if he wants to be truthful here and decides that honesty is the best policy, especially when it comes to you. “Few years ago. Maybe your second to last year of college.”
Years. You could’ve had him for years. All this time you’ve wasted.
“Why then?”
Bucky’s lips twitch in partial amusement as he holds his cock. You try not to stare at it too much, the length of it terrifies you in a way that has your legs squeezing together in anticipation. “You really want to talk about this now?”
You pout and nudge your ass back against him, bumping his cock. He releases a groan. “Tell me. I want to know.”
He swats your ass lightly and smirks. “Saw you all grown up. You weren’t so shy anymore. You finally looked me in the eyes.”
“Oh.” Your lips form a circle in surprise. That was the year you started learning more about boys and how terrible most of them were. You had your fair share of experiences but you knew none of them would ever compare to Bucky.
Bucky who’s been your dream for as long as you can remember.
“Do I want to know why you had that sudden change?” There’s a weight to his words that has you stiffening, fear crawling up your chest.
You know what he means. Confidence usually equals experience. If you were more comfortable with Bucky, that would mean that you had to have some sort of experience that changed your level of ease around him.
So you press your lips together and shake your head. “I plead the fifth.”
“Good answer,” he grunts, “I don’t need to be hearing all the things you did on campus.” His arm snakes around you again, sliding up your front, his hand landing around your neck. His fingers squeeze in. A choked gasp escapes you. “I don’t need to know who else you’ve done. I’m going to make you forget about all of them. I’m going to mold this pretty pussy to the shape of my cock until you can’t fit anyone else but me.”
You whimper with his words and desperately push your behind into him again. Bucky’s left hand goes down to grope your ass, giving it a firm grasp before he pushes the material of your dress up around your waist. The metal of his fingers drag up cool like the kiss of a serpent along your thigh before they press into your clothed slit.
A hiss slips between your teeth as he does so. And then you hear the rip — or more of a snap as your thong tears. You give a little whine and Bucky ducks his head close to your ears. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll buy you plenty more. More for me to ruin.”
“Better be a promise,” you pant.
He laughs again, deep and low, warm breath ghosting the back of your shoulder. “I always keep my word, kid.”
Then he sinks into you and you swear you see stars behind your eyes. The stretch burns like the blaze of a supernova; he’s thick, thicker than you expected and your pussy clamps down around him like you’re resisting the intrusion. Like you’re insisting you can’t take him.
“Relax. It’ll feel better if you just let me in,” he coos sweetly in your ear. “I need your sweet little pussy to take in my cock. I’ll make it fit. I’ll make it feel good. You’re already so wet, so ready for me.”
“B-Buck, please,” you whisper, the barest hint of fear tinging your voice.
“I’ll go easy, I promise. It won’t hurt.”
His words do nothing to console your worries. However, he does keep his word and he rolls up slowly into you, his cock gliding at a painstaking pace inside you. Each time he enters you, he fills you all the way. You could feel his hips against your ass as he buries himself to the base. He doesn’t miss a groan every time he does so, muttering filthy praises in your ear.
“You feel so perfectly tight around me, kid. Such a perfect cunt.”
“God, look at you taking me in like a champ. I knew you’d fit me.”
“Your pussy looks so pretty dripping all over my cock.”
As you grow accustomed to his size, as your worried whimpers fade into pleasured moans, Bucky begins to move faster. He ruts his hips a little harder, a little deeper. His fingers tighten around your throat, just enough to have you slightly dizzy with need. It’s an inebriating combination of pain and pleasure. He teeters that fine line with skill, making sure that you’re still with him every step of the way.
“Need you to pick a safe word, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t always have the best timing. You’re too fucked out to think right now, his cock is the only thing that’s on your mind with how delicious the burn is every time he thrusts up into you. You babble something incoherent, a non-answer to his request.
Bucky releases his grip around your neck lightly, squeezing your hip. You whine at the loss. “We should’ve done it earlier. I’m sorry. That was—”
“Jesus, Buck, not the time.”
“Pick one.”
You whine again, twisting only to smack his chest. “I don’t know, martini!”
“Martini?” Bucky confirms with a cock of his brow. You know this fucker’s resisting laughing right now.
“Yes, a dirty fucking martini! Now fuck me.”
Bucky mumbles something about the mouth on you again before he does as he’s told. His fingers return their firm grasp around your neck, loosening and squeezing in time with his hips. Moans tumble freely from your lips, desperate cries for more. An affirmation that whatever Bucky is doing feels like a goddamn gift right now.
He seems to relish it, drinking in your little noises as he bruises your hip with his hand. You have no doubt that you’ll have a collar around your neck tomorrow from how he’s tightening his grip, partly for your pleasure and partly for his own self-control.
“Pussy this good was always meant to be fucked. I can’t believe I waited this long to take you. I always knew you were made for me, kid. All those looks you threw at me, all those times you wore those skimpy little outfits around me. God, you have no idea how much I wanted to throw you across my knee and spank the shit out of you, to fuck you stupid so you learn your lesson.”
“‘M s-sorry,” you manage to gasp out.
“No, you’re not,” Bucky laughs, disbelief coating his tone. “You’re going to keep doing it, aren’t you? You’re going to keep teasing me whenever I come over. Maybe spread your legs to show me this perfect little cunt when your dad’s in the room. I’m gonna see you soak through your panties, like this pussy’s trained to get wet at the sight of me.”
“Oh, f-fuck,” you choke out. The visual has you gripping his cock tight, your pussy pulsing with a need to enact that exact scene. “Just like that. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“My gorgeous girl. My perfect slut.”
Bucky continues to hammer up into you, his cock molding your pussy to the perfect fleshlight for him. You feel spent and used but deliriously satisfied. You don’t want to think. All you want to do is give in completely to this man.
However, just as you feel yourself climbing faster and faster, chasing that orgasm you so eagerly need — one that you can practically taste on your tongue, voices outside have the two of you freezing. Bucky stops fucking into you and you feel your blood run cold.
It doesn’t sound like your dad. Or anyone you know. You can barely hear them through the door.
“Buck, we—”
You don’t get the chance to finish your sentence before Bucky is fucking back up into you. Harder, faster. “Fuck, you better keep it down, sweetheart. I don’t need anyone to see you like this. Pussy wrapped around my cock with my hand around you like a necklace. You don’t want any of your dad’s other friends to know that you spread your legs for me, do you?”
You shake your head. In that moment, you couldn't care less. Anyone could walk in and you would tell Bucky to keep going. His cock feels too good. He’s found the right angle to hit that delicious part inside of you, triggering waves of heat every time he slams into it.
And you can’t help the next groan that falls from your lips. Bucky’s hand immediately rises to your mouth, covering it to muffle your next moan.
“What did I just say? Are you too cockdrunk to listen right now?”
“N-no, s-sorry. I can’t h-help it,” you whine.
“You were always so mouthy. A fucking brat, I should’ve known you couldn’t keep your voice down when I’m fucking you so good.”
You mewl again, a needier sound this time as you arch your back, pushing your ass back against him. His name is stifled on your tongue but the noises still slip through his fingers.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Bucky grunts and you can feel him twitch and throb inside you even as he moves. He’s enjoying this as much as you are. The thrill of getting caught, the fear that has the strength in your knees waning. Bucky props you up like a doll as he plunges deep inside you over and over again. “You always were such a little slut for me.”
He drags his hand away from your mouth, you gasping for air that chokes out into yet another needy sound from your lips. He burrows his hands in your hair, all your hard work in a mussed-up mess on your head now that Bucky’s yanking your head back. He dips his head and sinks his teeth into your shoulders again.
“Alright, if you want to be loud, then be loud. Let them all hear how good I give it to you. How good I fuck this tight little cunt, you whiny brat.”
The pleasure jolts in delicious sparks all throughout your body. His words are enough to set off another round of pleasure crashing through you and pulling you under.
“Don’t you want your daddy dearest to hear how good I fuck his little girl? Scream for me, sweetheart. I want him to hear you moan my name through these walls. I want him to know how hard your cunt is squeezing my fat cock. A man as old as him fucking his good girl.”
“Bucky, hnnng— p-please, fuck— I n-need to— I want to cum.”
“Do you? You think you deserve it?”
You whine and turn your eyes, leaking with tears. Your mascara is smudged, streaks down your face as you sob at him. “Please, Bucky. I’ve been good. I’ve been so good to you, haven’t I?”
“Hmm, what good have you done for me?”
“I’ve been a good pussy for you, haven’t I?” You whimper. Dignity be damned. With how good Bucky’s fucking you, you’ll gladly open your legs anytime for him. Anywhere. Don’t need a job anymore. All you want to be is a fuckdoll for him to use whenever he pleases.
Bucky grabs your chin and turns your face to kiss you again. He groans into your mouth as he licks what remains of your gloss off your lips. “That’s right, sweetheart. You’ve been such a good pussy for me. You should be with a boy your age but you just want an old man. You want a man who can give it to you good, who knows what to do with his cock to make you feel good. You want a man who can train you to be an obedient pussy for my cock.”
You prattle off agreements, sliding between delirium and lucidity. It’s a fine line you’re traveling but all you can feel is your cunt squeezing around him, gripping him tight to keep him inside you. Keep yourself plugged up and filled.
Bucky keeps kissing you in a way you’ve never been kissed before. Addicting. Delectably mind-numbing. He swallows every single whine that rises from your chest. He nips your lips until they’re swollen, drawing your bottom lip between his teeth.
That pleasure continues to rise and rise and you feel your stomach tighten. Heat coils tight deep inside your gut as your legs tense to support this crescendo. Bucky feels you fasten around him, compressing around his cock like you’re trying to get him to the same place you are.
“Feels so good, sweetheart. I’m going to cum, gonna paint this pretty pussy white.”
Another curse leaves your lips. You’d love that. Next time, you’re pulling that condom off his cock before he finishes. But for tonight, you let his words take you to your crest. Your pleasure peaks to a point you’re whining into your fist as your pussy pulsates around him. You can feel the moment his hips stutter, his pace faltering as he cums. His hands clamp down around you as he chokes out a gasp, rutting into you to drag out his orgasm.
You can practically feel the warmth inside the condom, like he’s filling you up. Another shudder wracks through you as the last bits of your orgasm — and his — pulse through the nerves in your body.
Slumping against the door, you release a deep, shaky breath. Your muscles feel like jelly and you’re fighting to stay upright. Bucky pulls out of you, a careful slide out that leaves you feeling empty.
Empty at the loss of his warmth. The chill from the cellar settles into your skin. While the ache in your pussy is appeased, you can’t help but feel that gaping hole in your chest.
The two of you have crossed a line that you can’t return from. The only question is what happens now?
Bucky holds you close as he winces, looking at the mess on his cock, the cum coating every inch of his length. He hisses as he slowly eases himself back into his pants. “I’ll clean myself up later,” he says, red coloring his cheeks as he says this.
You’re about to come up with another snarky response, something spicy to rile him up and distract you from this hollow feeling, but then your knees give out. Bucky’s arms dart out to catch you just in time, holding you up against him.
“Whoa, there.”
Your pussy is still pulsing. Christ. The effect of this man.
“Weak knees,” you sheepishly admit.
Bucky doesn’t say anything, just smiles slow and steady. Then he bends down and scoops you up bridal style in his arms, your own circling his neck. “Alright, princess. Let’s get you to bed.”
“I’m not a child,” you roll your eyes at him.
His eyes are soft as they search yours. “I know,” he murmurs.
Bucky peeks outside to make sure the coast is clear before he tucks you closer to his chest, taking you up the back stairwell to your room. “You really didn’t have to carry me all the way up,” you mumble into his neck, taking another long inhale of his scent.
He only sets you down when you manage enough energy to splay out on your mattress, your chest rising and falling with a deep sigh. Bucky sits on the edges, the back of his fingers stroking your cheek.
“You okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” His blue eyes brighten, a flare of panic sparking in his gaze.
You hum. “You just fucked the knees out of me, Barnes. No, you didn’t hurt me.”
He deflates with relief and smiles again as you nuzzle into his touch. “Good,” he murmurs. You can sense his hesitation, words sitting on the tip of his tongue that he doesn’t say out loud. You capture his hand in both of yours to press a kiss to his wrist where his veins sit. You can feel his heartbeat against your lips.
“Talk to me.”
“We have to talk to your dad about this.”
Your heart sinks, dread etching itself into your bones.
It must show on your face because then Bucky’s quickly adding, “You can still change your mind. I’ll walk out. No hard feelings.”
That does nothing to appease your concerns. In fact, it only worsens it. You’ve wanted him for so long, you’ve dreamt of this for so long. Now that you’ve had him, he just— “You could do that?” You blurt out, hating yourself for how frail you sound. “Just walk away that easily?”
Bucky swallows as he leans down, thumb across your cheek as he presses his forehead against yours. “It won’t be easy for me, kid. Trust me. I’ve thought about this for a while, wouldn’t have given in tonight if I didn’t. But if that’s what you want, if you want this to be a one-time thing, I’ll respect it. Your feelings matter more to me than anything else.”
Your hand reaches up around his neck again to draw his face down, to let your lips meet so you can whisper, “Then don’t be stupid. ‘Course I want you. I’ve wanted this for far longer than you, Buck. Promise I have you beat there.”
He hums and you giggle.
“But, maybe we keep this a secret from dad a little bit longer.”
With as much strength as you can muster, you have him tumbling onto the bed, his back landing against your sheets as you crawl on top of him. You nestle your hips right above his before laying your body down on top of him, your bare breasts against his chest. Your teeth nip at his ear as your lips cling to the back of it. Bucky groans, fingers tightening on your waist.
“Don’t tell me you won’t enjoy sneaking around behind his back, fucking me on every surface in this house — or outside for that matter.”
Bucky looks up at you, his eyes glimmering with the kind of adoration that poets write sonnets about. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“And what a sweet death it’ll be, old man.”
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